There is a veil of gold above me, an eye watching me through a cloud. I am not aware of how many spirits converse in heaven for my sake, but I know full well that you are one of them. Of course you cannot really converse with them. You are the angel in a corner, dark and handsome, sitting thoughtfully with your arms crossed on top of your knees. Your eyes are deep in meditation, your face a bit tense from caring, your sharp, acute thoughts whizzing around your head and body like swallows. Of course you are not part of them, you do know that. Little do you care: you are too busy thinking of what to do until you share their power.
Dear one, I can already feel that you do not think I, you don't think she, as much as you think us. I am a lonely person and very few people have thought that way for me. Why is it that, although you are geographically so remote, I often feel your gaze upon me from high above; your love descending on my shoulders like a bird with his wings spread wide? I told someone recently that our friendship was, somehow, like a guardian angel relationship. That did not sound unreasonable.
Dearest, I am protected by your light, and kept safe by your purity. I pray for you not just because I love you; I pray for you because you do pray for me, so how could I help it?
Please, do not falter, my friend. Do not let your tension weaken. Keep caring, keep nurturing the flame. With your help, I have already seen snakes crawl away in haste before my feet. I have already found my way in the darkest woods after catching a glimpse of your light. Keep watching me, angel. Keep changing into a breeze and letting me know you're there. Just do not stop whispering softly to my heart. Keep sheltering me from evil, shielding my path from the unscrupulous. Nobody hears you but me, and such is our strength. Criminals have already given up. Traitors have failed to crush me; they have thrown dirt to me and it did not stick. Oh, beloved, keep holding the light for me.

The news came in last night, and the least I can say is that I was no longer expecting them.
Maybe I shouldn't be proud of myself. What would the Lady of Mercy say to that? She would point out that I haven't kept my heart strong enough. And then, perhaps, she would admit that such is life, such is distance, such is time, such is... Well, now I say to myself: You promised him that time would not matter, didn't you? That distance was inexistent? That there was only one sky above the two of you, and so forth? You did write that, and you remember. And, sure enough, he does remember. It's not that you didn't keep your promise to him. It is just that you came pretty close to not keeping your promise to yourself.
But I do remember what was happening while, thousands of miles away, in a sizzling metropolis of East China, you were hitting the "send" button. I was lying on my bed, thinking of various longings, deceptions, treacheries, misfortunes big and small. I was sad but my mind went wandering around you. Where is he? I thought. Are we still connected? Do our thoughts still resound together like the strings of a lute? Do I still love him? And I realized: yes, I do. Most definitely. Oh, White Male Crane, here is a thing of wonder: you will always be there, close to me. The tides of life have not erased your presence, and they probably never will. Are you still there to comfort me? Do you still hold out white flowers for me? You do, I have to admit, I cannot doubt it. And I thought: White Male Crane, I may not be worthy of you, but I always thought that this love was living its own independent life, like a flame permanently maintained by your perseverance and my own. But lately I have been questioning my own perseverance. And, lying on my bed, I felt that it did not really matter if my perseverance was steady or wavering, because yours was like the Sun, and it took care of mine.
I also felt that it might well be possible that my perseverance had not been wavering. It had just gone underground, for self-protection. Then I stood up, went to my computer, and there it was, the blissful surprise.
What a difference! A message from you — in English. You tell me that you no longer work at the place where I met you. You're using a translation software, and you're beginning projects on your own with a friend.
Excellent news. You end the message by saying that you think of me too.
Had I ever really hoped for that?
Had I ever thought, frankly, that one day you might write me such a thing?
Such happiness, such a feeling of light and miraculous serenity. I never thought that could be possible. I felt, I assumed that you might love me too, but those violent pangs of love hitting me without notice were quite real — see, I was right. You have been thinking of me, you have been sending me your love through the air. I have never been fooling myself, when some friends around me thought I was. I am now telling myself that I was right, that I have not dreamed. And it is a wonderful feeling.
It is a feeling of gratitude. To Gods, to spirits, to the Light. But most of all to you, my dear. I am grateful to you. I admire you. I praise your courage and your purity, for not anyone can sustain such a relationship and find it in himself to keep it alive for so long, when there is so little to hold on to. I certainly can understand that, for we are in the same boat. I do know the value of your fortitude, and it is tremendous. The fuel of your friendship is of the very stuff Heaven is made of. I consider this in awe: what is happening now is a miracle, the proof that hopeless things are worth fighting for, that the craziest dreams can come true.
So I can add up to the joy of knowing that my feelings are shared the certainty that I have been right all along. The odds sure were against me. I will not even start naming them: they feel like the whole world, except for one spark of light. You always held that spark in your hand and I now have the proof of that. My dear friend, thank you.
When I started this blog, out of the overflowing pain of my heart, I was so far from believing that someday this would end well. But it is not ending. It is going on, it is only beginning, and there is happiness now. The male crane is now spreading his wings. We actually might share a mooncake someday.
Be well, dear friend of mine. Be happy, and be praised. For you are the right one, and I was perfectly right to fall in love with you and place my trust in you. You are gold, my dear. Your thoughts always came to me like spears of gold. Now I know why. Your kindness and your constance have helped fill this day to the rim with luscious, heavenly gold.

Sometimes I smell gardenia, so I look inside my head, and I see white flowers. I know you have brought them to me.
You make me see white flowers. You absolutely mean to do that. Your mind travels through space and shows me white flowers.
You seem to like them, and for some reason you think they're the perfect gift to me. As if they were an image for the pureness of your heart, the stark brightness of your love.
Once I saw you coming to me, and your hand pointed to a bush of white camellias in full bloom. Then it was a cascade of white roses. Your smiling face and white camellias, your hand caressing them: "See, I've brought them here for you."
Flowers are expensive and they wither fast. The flowers you grow in your heart bloom at your command, no matter the season, night or day. And you tell me there's an endless supply of them in the greenhouses of your love.
Once it was a bunch of white peonies that you had purchased from the street, still dripping rain. You were holding it out to me in your right hand and said: "They are precious and beautiful."
You bring me jasmine, narcissus, lilies and orchids, all white. The color of the pearly sheets we sleep in. The color of the Moon, who protects us. And sometimes I see two orchids, with one red heart in each.

May 17, Pudong. Our flight from Singapore was late. Owing to a large number of aircrafts landing at the same time, we spent a painful hour waiting in line at the passport control. When we finally reached the arrival hall, it was so full, noisy and crowded that I felt lost. I was expecting Thierry to pick us up, no Thierry was in sight. Photographer was dragging his heavy suitcase and we could see no one awaiting us. After a few minutes I thought "This can’t be real" and I told photographer to stand there with the luggage, I’d walk around searching for someone holding a sign. Then I saw your face. My eyes met yours. I recognized you instantly. You shone like the full moon in a river at night. Instantly, you recognized me as well and opened your mouth in surprise. Your eyes flashed. As soon as I saw your face, I saw your beauty. I could see you had been waiting, and cursing us for being so late. Then I saw the sign that you had been holding behind your back. It had our names on it. But I had no need to see it.
I ran back to photographer. "Is that him ? Are you sure ?" he said. "Of course I’m sure, he’s their best-looking waiter." I was so sure of having seen you before that I thought you were a waiter. You looked more than a little tired and impatient, actually you acted a bit cross to us. Courteously, silently, somewhat dryly, you took my luggage handle from my hand, leaving photographer alone to carry his huge suitcase, trotting behind. We followed you to the parking lot. We got into the car. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I thought you were the handsomest man, with the most unsmiling face.
"I think we have a little temper of our own, haven’t we ? I said to my companion
— He must have waited so long !" He said, quite rightly.
I felt sorry for you, almost guilty. Of course it was through no fault of our own that the plane had been delayed, and we too had had a hard time waiting in line. But I thought you didn’t deserve that, you shouldn’t have to spend your precious youth waiting for long-noses just because your boss told you so. Your face looked weary, I instantly sensed that you were overworked. I liked you so much already. If your stern expression hadn’t kept my mind at a distance from my heart, I suppose I’d have been aware of my feelings much sooner.

We started from Pudong airport in the rain. It was a warm and soft Spring rain, quite welcome. We had baked in Bangkok, steamed in Singapore. We thought we'd never get out of it. And then we were in Shanghai, and I met you, and when I met you it was the First Spring Rain. Six days later, I would celebrate my birthday. Normally, my birthdays are difficult periods of my life. I gazed around at the misty, wet sky of China. I had been aware of a promise in the air, long before coming here. Maybe it would be different this time ? You drove quietly, your face expressionless, seemingly brooding. I thought : is he still brooding about us ? At that point, it no longer seemed to matter who was riding that car with you. You were doing your job. Your silence was as heavy as granite. While you were not showing any attention to us, a strange kind of tension was emanating from you, as if some subtle captors in your soul were listening for us, or perhaps for me. I know for sure I was listening for you. Maybe something from you was reaching for me already. Maybe something from me was meeting that something from you for the first time, all shy and caught by surprise. Photographer and I nearly fell asleep in the car. The atmosphere was wet and sad, the road, buildings and cars around us looked dreary, but what I remember feels more like an embrace in the dark.
When we arrived at our destination, I realized that you were not one of the waiters. And indeed why should a waiter have been sent to pick us up at the airport ? Your boss had several chauffeurs, probably three, and you were one of them. Then I also understood that I had, most probably, never seen you before in my life. That left me thinking deeply.

I cannot write all the time.
I cannot write about it.
I cannot write about it at any given time.
I cannot write about it unless the sensation is right. I have to get the permission. I can also try to recollect.
Do you remember that opera stage, my dear ?
I don’t know how far the roots of our love really go. But I know where something began. It was bright, miraculous and awesome.
That was when you saw me.
You had seen me before, as I had seen you, but let me remind you. You do remember, but it makes me feel good to tell you, so that you know that I have really felt it too.
Still, I suppose I have to tell the story in the right order. Before the opera stage was the yixing teapot. Before the yixing teapot, or maybe after, you zipped up my backpack and smiled at me. And even before that, you drove me from Pudong airport to Shanghai in the rain. That is when I saw you, but was it the first time ? Sincerely, as I already wrote, I do not know.

While I'm getting ready for perhaps imaginary, certainly inner difficulties, a call from you pierces my heart as I am sitting on the terrace at Ton Pho restaurant, Banglamphu. I am not alone and the shock is so sudden that I close my eyes for a few seconds. It is a stroke of lightning, a scream of love, your arms held out and wanting to hug me. And your despair.
I heard that so clearly that I felt shattered. I am there, my love. Right there. I am always there. The line is always open.
I would like to tell you, my dear: don't despair. Good chances are that I am just as crazy as you are.

I do not know where you are taking me. It's raining.
I am beginning to know my way from the huge neon signs on the buildings. But they are not helping me much yet.
We are caught in traffic once again. I like that. In spite of the pollution, noise, stress, and the ugliness of the slowly-moving urban landscape, being caught in traffic stretches the moments we spend side by side. It is a small help from the city. Nothing else, and no one else, helps us here.
I couldn't care less where you're taking me. Being stuck on this elevated highway is already a destination, as long as it is with you. Being where I should be, I do not need to move. And wherever I'll move, I'll be where I belong if you are the one taking me there.
I do not care where you are headed. At the restaurant, nobody told me where we should be going. You did not tell me anything. I did not ask you. We are alone in the world, so I will follow you wherever you please, or wherever you must, if you must.
I am waiting for the pouring rain to wipe the dust from the windshield. But the rain is already dusty, so why bother. Where shall we seek purity? I turn to you. You are staring at the cars ahead of us. Purity is behind your face, crouched like a dangerous feline. I can see it, I can feel it. It is an impressive thing to see. I suppose it could even scare me. But not now. I'm not even scared of finding out where you're taking me.
Let the rain wash our hearts, I think. But the rolling waves of a thousand rivers have already wiped them clean. It is a wonder that they are still there, in our chests, and not washed away. But what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Love strips us to the bone.
Your hand on the wheel is very still. Your gestures are easy, without the slightest hesitation or uncertainty. You do know where you're taking me. I do not. You do not look worried about me so there's no reason I should worry about myself. You do not look worried about us, so there is no reason for me to worry about anything at all. You do not look worried about yourself so I feel perfectly contented. I do not worry because I am seeing you so quiet, so gentle, so secretive. Nothing can happen to me. I judge my future by the firm steadiness of your hand grasping the wheel.

You drove me through the province for hours. We exchanged as many words as we could and wished to, that is to say — very few. The Springtime weather was mild, a little rainy at times. Around mid-afternoon, we stopped at a small mountain village. You seemed to know the place. I trust you at all times: I did not ask you any questions. I was in a somewhat sleepy state, probably from the tension of the past few days. We weren't precisely fleeing but definitely trying to escape from something vague. And, at any rate, trying to find some hypothetic spot on the planet where we'd belong. No single word was said about that. You just drove on. Sometimes you'd lay your right hand on my knee for a minute or two. Sometimes I'd look at you and you'd briefly look back at me. Sometimes I'd just stare at the road and the landscape, your hand on my knee and perhaps my hand on your hand.
We had started so early that morning. However, for some reason, I couldn't sleep a wink in the car. I felt that was not wanted.
Until that moment when you got out of the car and walked around it to open the door for me. I stood up uneasily, realizing that my legs ached. Stress was acting on my joints and muscles. Nothing, I thought, a short walk, a shower, a cup of tea and a little massage couldn't help. Anyway, you helped me out, seemingly aware of my inconfort.
You had parked in front of an old guesthouse, which looked a little shattered but was not without charm. Fowl and chicks were picking the ground here and there around us. A smell of freshly-cut grass with a hint of manure was floating in the air. You took our luggage out of the trunk and briskly walked to the door. I followed you.
You said a few words to the old lady, and in a couple of minutes we were in a large bedroom upstairs. That was the first really uncomplicated thing that was happening to us in a long time. I felt grateful that we had left the city.
The room was beautiful, though simple. It was humble, but clean. The furniture — a wide bed, a table, a few chairs and a couple of chests of drawers — was very old and dark. You opened the window, which looked onto a courtyard and a large cherry tree in full bloom. I stared incredulously at the soft, snowy branches: that this kind of beauty could be back into our life so soon seemed uncanny. You smiled at me gently, as if to tell me that we'd get used to that.
I took off my shoes and lay on the bed while you began rummaging in your suitcase. I felt very tired and awkward from feeling so. I thought you must have been more tired than I was, having driven us all the way up there, but you didn't look very tired. You looked in charge. You'd rest later. Your gestures meant that we had a chance to release the tension. Being active and in charge was, for you, a way of relaxing, as lying down was for me. But it was almost indecent of me to be the first one to lie down when you had been doing all the driving. You didn't seem to care and kept busying yourself methodically. There was something rude in my lying down, but I felt more tired than guilty.

I hadn't realized that I had fallen asleep, unsurprising at that was. How long had I slept? It was hard to tell. Eyes still closed, I knew it was still daytime, but not for long. Some blue was seeping through my eyelids. I felt warm. Something heavy and soft was covering my whole body. My hand met the satiny touch of a quilted silk blanket. You had fetched it from wherever it was, perhaps even asked the old lady for it, and gently laid it on me to keep me warm. The air wasn't even very cold. This blanket over me was like a new sky spread out above my soul. I wished I could keep my eyes closed for eternity, feeling that satin softness as a symbol of your kindness.
But something urged me to open my eyes and sit up. It was your eyes, cast upon me. Sitting at the table, your elbow on the back of the chair, you were looking at me. I took a long look at your still, slightly tanned, beautifully chiseled face. A round, blue-green china teapot and two white china cups had been set on the table, waiting, shining for my attention. When I sat up, you smiled at me, with that sunny smile of yours. I smiled back.
I sat on the chair nearest to you. You took the teapot and poured out some tea, then handed me the cup. Then you poured out some tea for yourself. Through the open window I could see the sky turning to a deeper shade of blue. I could hear birds singing in the cherry tree, and the fowl cackling down below. A faint, cool breeze was flowing in. We drank, looking straight into each other's eyes. We drank again, silently. And again, until it was almost dark. The moon rose and we were still sitting there. There was no need to do or say anything special. The tea was tepid but we still drank. A drop of tea, on your lower lip, was struck by moonlight for a short moment and I saw it shine. It shone like a water pearl on a lotus leaf. Still sitting, I moved my body faintly towards you. You put your cup back on the table and took my arms. It was almost dark now, with a bit of moonlight. You stood up, lifted me up and drew me close to you. We began kissing.

Dear, I will begin to tell the story.

I came to Shanghai for the first time in November 2004. This was the place where I learned to wear red. A light blood red, warm and cheerful, with the soft sheen of Thai silk around my neck. Today I cut my hair. Yes, the long hair you have seen. You probably wondered how long it was when unbraided and untied? I will tell you: the tips reached the underside of my buttocks. That's how long they were. Anyway, this is part of the past: now they reach the lower part of my lower jaw and that is quite pretty. It makes my eyes shine brighter and my face look livelier. My long hair is part of the past but you are part of the future. Not of the past. And not of the present, somehow.
I also had it colored slightly darker than my natural hair tone, and I asked for one bright red lock on the side of my head. Of the very bright red that I have learned to love in China. I probably hope this auspicious color will bring me good luck. Maybe I even hope it brings you closer to me, or me closer to you. These days, I hope everything brings us closer together.

So I first came to Shanghai at the end of 2004. Did I meet you then? I do not think so. I seem to remember a young man driving me from the restaurant to the big food market near the Old Town. A silent, unsmiling, taciturn young man, which is why I wonder whether this young man wasn't you. But in my memory his face did not look like yours. It was not as handsome. However, I remember that his face made an impression on me. What impression, I could not tell for sure. I cannot help but associate this young man with you. I do not know why. Maybe it was you and I didn't know as yet what you would become for me later. Maybe he wasn't you. But judging by the feeling I got from sitting in that car with him at the wheel, I remember something that reminds me of you. A slight sulking, a mysterious disapproval, and extreme shyness bordering to hostility. Sometimes that is how desire utters its first cry.
I remember the man was young, I remember the waves of hostility, or what I interpreted as such. But I do not remember the young man's face.
Is it possible that someday you do tell me: "Yes, I was your driver, that first time, taking you to the market on a sunny morning"? If you did tell me that, it would mean a lot. And first of all that we'd have left many obstacles behind us.
But we are not there yet, my dear. Far from it.

Shanghai is not a city with a complex structure. With a map in hand, it is not difficult to find your way. I saw such beauty there once I decided to walk alone. Your city, and your country, hit some very important and deep strings in my heart. I never feel foreign in your city. I consider the people my brothers and sisters, and sometimes tears come to my eyes when I think of them. The weather was reasonably cold, not freezing. I cannot describe that first trip accurately though my memories of it are so vivid. Maybe they dwell in such a sensitive region of my heart that I cannot put words on them. Someday, maybe, I can tell you about it. You will have to be close, very close to me, and listen to me silently. Your voice, in short words, will encourage me to speak. It will be dark and soft, we will have to share each other's warmth. Someday, I always say: someday. Someday is a key word with us, my dear.

Day by day, I believe our relationship builds itself like a temple. I put in my love and patience as cement, and God provides the stones.
You are mysteriously associated with all the moments of peace and admiration I experienced during my lonely walks in Shanghai: my visit of the near-deserted Confucius temple, where I bought a lovely small figure of Guanyin carved in boxwood. The food market I discovered nearby. My browsing at Datong Lu, through identical fake antiques, dusty china bowls and rubber Mao busts. What I particularly remember is the crisp, blue, ice-cold evening that was falling upon me like a veil. The mandarin oranges I bought at a shop before grabbing a cab and going back to the hotel. I was so thirsty I ate one in the car. Your city, my dear, has given me a new liking for Winter, because I found that Winter was very graceful there.
I knew — and that became clearer and clearer after I got back home — that I had been greeted in Shanghai by friendly souls and spirits, perhaps ancestors, perhaps brother and sister souls. The contact had been renewed, a process had started, a new alliance had been made. I was very far from suspecting that, a few months later, the alliance would materialize as a love for you. What does it matter, if it is Heaven's will?

So totally lost that it holds some beauty, like a stone garden, like a lotus flower, like an empty seascape. However, I am not feeling strong enough to feel comfortable in this beauty. I will have to deal with this.

It is almost amusing : I think there is no way to be more lost that our story is now. Do you think you can empty a bottle further than by turning it down, pouring every drop of liquid out of it, and then standing in the sun for three months waiting for the inside to dry ? You can. I feel this bottle is even emptier than that. It is, so to speak, filled to the rim with antimatter, anti-anything, anti-existence. No tiny chance seems to have been left to this love, this friendship to exist. I remember the wide, heavy doors closing before the running Paro at the end of Devdas. Such cruelty. Living in the Western world in 2005 has a way of making you forget that this kind of cruelty still exists. It still does.

I sent a short, neutral reply by e-mail last Sunday. Nothing special, just to let you know that the contact could be established. No reply came. It certainly means that the contact is not established, or better : that it has been cut off right before it could even exist. Now, I think that the e-mail I got was not from your hand. After all, you very probably would not have written those things to me. Some words are even unthinkable. They were dictated by some harsh, collective, corporate mind. This was not your voice. I actually never read your true voice. The e-mail address - a Yahoo - may even not be yours but created for the circumstance by whoever needed it. It's so easy.

Now it seems that nothing can ever come from you. I do not know what is happening over there but I am reluctant to go any further. I suspect I have already, quite unwittingly, caused enough harm. I bear such a grudge to my messenger. How could he be so stupid. It took such a little mistake to screw it all up. You were exposed, probably put to shame, perhaps you nearly lost your job. I hope you did not lose it. I am so sorry, my love. I had no control over this.

Such a total, incredible, blinding, deafening mess. It is almost like a work of art. If this is artwork by destiny, it has been chiseled to perfection.

There was something, and it was so strong, so lively, it shone so bright. The sand has sucked it up, the wind has blown it away, the hail has broken it up to tiny unrecognizable bits. Neither of us deserved it and particularly not you, my friend. I cannot see how things could improve in any way now. Some voices tell me they can, they tell me they will. I find this unbelievable but the least I can do is trust them. I am just keeping this aside for later ; as a now departed friend used to tell me : You shall see. You shall see. I accept that I shall see, I am almost ready to believe it, but for now I cannot see how I could ever see.

I do not know how I could ever see you again, and if I do see you, how the communication could resume. Better leave all this in the hands of God, and this has never kept sorrow at bay. Such is life.

So abandoned, so white, so naked. This love is just as beautiful in this state of nothingness. It reaches sainthood. When nothing is left, divinity appears. The right conditions to pray.

All I am left with is your beautiful face, that smile that doesn’t even smile at me. When I look a it, I know there is something wrong with all this mess. It shouldn’t have happened, we’re connected. We’re brother and sister. They had no business keeping us apart. This is not normal. This has to change.

I need to remain modest. What happened to us is nothing compared to what has taken place during the last decades, in your country, and near your country. Broken families, impossible love, crushed lives, deaths, physical and moral torture, disrespect, oppression. What we got was not even worth a mosquito bite. We’re nothing.

A flicker of light, maybe a tiny fleck of hope. Please, it is somewhere in the Universe, where no people who should be together may ever be separated. Let it come to me, let it rest in my hand. Please.